


rewind, rewind

by blue_roses



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Long Shot, Romance, Slow Burn, other characters that are less relevant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-21 15:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7392913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_roses/pseuds/blue_roses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I pushed my need for a body that could achieve leaps and bounds onto someone who had no say, not just once, but-”<br/>“Do you need a reminder that you saved my life? Is that not what doctors do, save lives?”<br/>You don’t tell her about the years you felt soulless, broken, of the resentment you felt towards them and her and you. There’s a space between you and her, filled with words unsaid, out of either necessity or reluctance. She discovered your journey the moment you saw her again, and you don’t have to say another word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	rewind, rewind

**Author's Note:**

> this is such a cluseterfuck of a fic but give it a chance? C:

 

  You wish you could say you woke up with a blur of motion, in moments you won’t recall and breathing you were grateful for. But the very training that forced you to stay focused outweighed the leisure you had grown accustomed to. The memories blurred eventually, just like the feeling of time wearing down your bones, but then they were slow and clear and _very_ painful.

   You remember hands, hands interchanging, hands in gray, white, _neon yellow_ gloves that would burn your eyes if they weren’t already burning. Words exchanged at increasingly loud volume and you want to croak something out and ask _am I going to die I can’t die yet please_ but it comes out as gurgling on things you don’t want to think of and raspy attempts at making noise and a you hear footsteps and the sound of machinery folding. Everything else fades out as you hear the _click clack_ of boots and a woman looks at you with eyes so blue they sting. You don’t understand how she can smile the way she does, like the world is slowed around her, like she has everything under control. She’s handed a cloth that she wipes your face with, then takes a look at you that almost feels meaningful.

  “You’re going to be okay, I’ve got you,” she says, she’s still smiling and you try to choke out a _you’re lying_ and you resent the fact that you want to believe her. And you do, because you have a feeling the people who can smile in these moments are always the ones  who follow through.

   It’s only natural that you remember she _does_ follow through. Because you’re exhausted, vision hazy, hooked up on some sort of new age medical technology but you’re alive. It takes you much more than a moment to register your surroundings, to realize there are two chairs pulled up near you, two men sitting in them. The one to the left wore all black, a severe expression painted over his face. It almost reminds you of Hanzo, if you wanted to remember him with any fondness, you’d try to smile at the thought of a man who always had to force himself to be stern. This man and your br- _Hanzo_ both seemed to have a problem with dark eye circles. The former’s stood out even with his dark skin, you wondered if he too spent sleepless nights wondering about the weight of responsibility. The man to the right reminded you of the American soldiers you’d hear in screens and conversations, the stuff you’d see in western military recruitment advertisements, a blond haired blue eyed image.

   Neither of the men are the first to notice you’re aware of your surroundings, the woman, _doctor_ from earlier comes in the room with a tablet and a white coat over what seems to be a battle suit. You wonder if she’s some sort of emergency medic, a doctor, or both as she walks up to you. She glances at the wall, your eyes follow, even though you can’t crane your neck to see what she’s seeing. You’re not sure why you want to know, but the moment you realize it’s _nothing._

  “Ah, so you _are_ awake. It’s a pleasure to meet you when you are more conscious.” Another smile, you have no idea how she can smile in such a strangely soft way when you’re probably on some kind of life support. But she manages, and puts her hands on yours, “I’d shake your hand, but I wouldn’t want you in any more pain. My name is Angela Ziegler, some people prefer to call me Dr. Ziegler, though I’ll also respond to Mercy. Are you able to speak?”

   An excellent question you don’t know the answer to. One of the men, the left one, growls a, “Come on Doc, we don’t need a therapy session here.” The other man gives a small chuckle, as if that was endearing for some reason, “Come on Reyes,” he says, mimicking the other man, _Reyes’s_ tone, “be patient. Mercy’s the medical professional here.” Somehow, even though _Mercy_ is more likely a codename than anything else, it feels more like a name for a friend when the blond man says it. You decide in that moment to never call her that.

   Dr. Ziegler looks at you, both expectant and steeled. Her fingers lightly drum against her wrist, similar, again to Hanzo. He always tapped his hands against his drawing arm before an important target was in his reach, _important_ when he drew his bow against you and he looked like her: expecting a change but steeling for stubbornness. When he knew it was the point of no return, his eyes held something of regret, and you screamed at the top of your lungs to show your body was falling apart _look at what you did to me brother burn it into your eyes before you die is this the extent you’ll go to prove you are superior to those who never cared for us?_ He always made sure his pride and honor were apparent, but this doctor’s pride seems to be placed in her spine and tendons rather than her bearing. You don’t know how to feel about this, not in a way you can comprehend, so you say the only word you can think of and don’t care if it reaches her.

   Years later, you’re asked what you said, what it meant for you, for those who heard it. You respond with, _Dr. Ziegler was the only one who heard,_ and leave it at that. You also don’t clarify the way she _glows_ when you say it, her smile doesn’t have to be broad to show the joy that radiates from her. You don’t understand it, not in the least why she is happy to see a stranger on life support, you don’t recall doctors being like this, it all feels foreign to you.

  “I don’t want you to strain yourself too much. I am sure you’re aware members of Overwatch, our organization, found you in the Hanamura area, and you’ve had extensive injuries, making you incapable of functioning the way you’re used to. But I believe there’s a more pressing matter here: what is your name?”

  You think about starting on a long winded statement about the clan and Overwatch and rattle off things that belonged in Hanzo’s mouth, but you remember. To them, you’re a dead man, and you have no need to serve a clan that decided to forsake you. You think of them, and if you could feel much other than numbness, you swear your blood would _burn_ . So when you’re asked for your name, you say _Genji,_ do your best to stop the _Shimada_ from coming in beforehand.

   Dr. Ziegler puts something into her tablet, whispering a _thank you_ as she stepped to her right. The blond man, whose name you still don’t know, comes up to you, Reyes coming close behind him. The man comes to you with a voice recorder and a smile, the type that would have heart stealing potential if you weren’t focused on figuring out what was going on. Well, as focused as you could be.

  “Hey, I’m Morrison. Jack Morrison to be a bit more formal, but I’ve never been good with this small talk. Genji, we know you’re, well _formerly_ a part of the Shimada clan. Don’t take much for us both to know you’re, in all sense, legally dead. So, I’ll be as blunt as can be without being at Reyes-” a _growl_ of all things comes out of Reyes’s mouth, but Morrison continues, “level, but we’d appreciate your assistance--”

  “We want you to help us take down Shimada.” Reyes interrupts in an almost bored tone, but it’s more exasperation than anything. Morrison gives him a quick glare before turning back to you.

  “ _Naturally_ we’ll give you the enhancements, tools, and body to do it, courtesy of Mercy. Our doctor is your best chance of recovery, if you’d like to help us, of cou-”

  You say _yes_ faster than you’ve ever said anything before.

  Morrison goes over the details, asks you about what modifications would suit you, there isn’t much known about you in their records apparently. Dr. Ziegler puts information into her tablet, gives you a smile every time you make eye contact. Somehow it’s both soothing and unsettling. You’re informed that your body will be mostly reconstructed into a form well suited for combat, as you cannot become _fully_ human anymore. Dr. Ziegler asks you if you’re ready to go under, you will be sedated for a period of time, and to please tell her if anything is out of the ordinary. She lists off symptoms you only half remember, and the last thing you see after she gives you a drug is her face.

  Waking up feels different in a way you cannot describe. You’re still resting in a hospital bed alone, and you’ve been in accidents and you’ve been injured and you’ve always woken up with some form of pain. Right now, you barely feel a thing. You’re nerves are probably messed up, state of the art sedatives are not your expertise. Though you do know better than to pull out whatever you’re hooked up with. The moment you try and discern what parts of you are machine, Dr. Ziegler comes into your room.

   “Hello Genji, how are you feeling?” For some reason you’re surprised she knows your name.

    “I can feel my heart beating, so I believe that is a good sign.” She chuckles before saying something in… German? It’s under her breath, and you don’t think you’re _supposed_ to hear her, they might’ve added some form of enhanced hearing. But it wasn’t your ears that felt strange, it was your, _body?_ It doesn’t help that when you try and recall the extent of your injuries, it’s either extremely hazy or incredibly graphics in regards to _pain_ and _who_ did this to you.

    “As you might remember, your body needed intensive reconstruction, and by the time we transported you to the appropriate facilities, a lot of the damage was already done. I am sorry…” She trails off before listing attributes, but you stop paying attention to her voice when she hits _cyber-agility_ and you look at your hands and those can’t be your hands. Your legs are tastefully covered by a blanket, and you try and curl your toes and it doesn’t feel _right._ You bring your eyes back at Dr. Ziegler, and from the look on her face, you understand that this is what you’ve become.

  You don’t remember asking to go to the bathroom, you try and vaguely pay attention to Dr. Ziegler’s words but after the first sentence you are a lost cause to anything she could have given you. You fold the blanket before you go, as you were raised to, and walk away in a direction you barely remember.

   It would probably be more dramatic if you saw the face of a monster, if you screamed and shouted and broke down but you are silent. Just because it’s a face that belongs to you doesn’t mean you recognize it, it is scarred and everything about it is real but it isn’t _yours._ Your body, however, is as human as the technology you were tied to. Your face stretches into some sort of pained expression, but you don’t you _can’t_ feel a damn thing. But, if you think about it, you have become the perfect weapon, and you don’t need to be anything more than that, even if you’re not the man you used to be, or a man at all.

    You walk back to your room, and Dr. Ziegler is still there, still _smiling_ for some unearthly reason. You don’t have it in you to be grateful right now, but she puts her hand up before you think of saying a word.

  “Now, before your first mission, you will be given time to...adjust. You have time to do that after I check your vitals. We will be having checkups once every three weeks at 11:00, today is our first. This will be quick, don’t worry.” You sit down at her insistence, and her expression shifts the moment she puts her hands on you. She flips panels you didn’t know were there, you hate the fact that a stranger knows your body better than you do, that this is your body in the first place. She goes back and forth from you to the tablet, with a focus that reminds you of a repairman rather than a doctor, you have never felt less human.

    “Dr. Ziegler!” a voice calls, at the same time another voice yells, “Mercy!”. Dr. Ziegler’s head shoots up, you hear more calls for various supplies you don’t know the names of.

  “ _Ich bin da!”_ she shouts to the outside space, before turning to you, “Our next checkup is on Tuesday, and will be once every three weeks after then, stay safe, you’ll be meeting Winston as well!” She does not run out, but you can tell she’s in a hurry by the quickness of her strides. You can’t say you’ll miss the company, something you’d usually enjoy, but when your life’s in shambles, it does tend to change your perspective. You resolve yourself to do your adjustments, and stay as distant as can be.

  You manage to do that relatively well at Gibraltar, a hub of military and science, there are plenty of places to hide. Of course, you see the flashes of orange and the clanking of armor. You hear the people talking, those with abilities, those without, but they all have the privilege to at least _pretend_ to be human. You can’t bring yourself to interact.

  Two days later, you’re forced to. But you meet someone who, like you, cannot pretend to be human. Mostly because he’s a _goddamn_ gorilla. And you do not say this lightly. A real live  gorilla, talking, knowing more about science than you ever could, it’s surreal, but you try and keep your expression neutral. It helps that there’s a piece of armor that literally covers your face. He also somehow manages to be more awkward that you’ve been in your entire life.

   “Um, nice you meet you, I’m Winston. But Mercy probably already said that, didn’t she? We work together in sciences, but that’s also probably obvious.” He extends his hand? Paw? Limb? You take it, not used to feelings someone’s grip. Winston sits down next to Dr. Ziegler, in a chair you expect is pulled out specifically when he comes into her office. Dr. Ziegler gives you a small wave, allowing you to sit down before going into any dialogue.

   “The reason I invited Winston was so we could make sure your offensive functions were working well, I’m simply here to supervise and introduce you two.” Winston gives you a once over like he’s trying to bare into your soul, then turns to Dr. Ziegler and nods.

  “I...I hope you don’t mind this. I just need to look at your arms and your back, and touch them too! As if you didn’t already know that.” He stands up, an arsenal of tools held in an extremely large hand. He walks up to your right, “Uh, would you mind extending your arms? I need to check them first.”

   “I...understand,” you extend your arms towards him, and he crouches down, pinching small tools with a scrunched face. Somehow, he makes you feel more awkward than usual, and  considering your life was recently torn to shreds along with your body. You let him do his business, only hearing his hums of concentration, Dr. Ziegler’s occasional giggle, and some chewing. You finally look up from Winston’s mildly frightening concentration. It was hard to see him as intimidating when you actually spoke to him.

   Dr. Ziegler is eating a sandwich. If “eating a sandwich” referred to “savagely ripping apart meat and cheese that happens to be in between two slices of bread” , then yes, she was eating a sandwich. You had no idea how she managed to giggle, or work, or _function_ with her mouth that full. A lot of things came to mind in the short time you’ve known Dr. Ziegler, messy eater was not one of them. What’s more unsettling is the fact that’s she’s doing all of this with one hand, the other still recording things onto her tablet. And Hanzo--and _you_ were told _you_ were a messy eater.

  It’s such an _unsettling? Unsanitary? I need to teach you how to eat properly?_ Kind of moment that you decide to once again turn to Winston, who is still aggressively focused on the tiny tool between his finger and his thumb, and however the hell it’s connected to your arm because you can’t feel a thing.

  “So,” you say, “have you ever heard of Donkey Kong?”

   “What?” Winston says, features loosening into a look of confusion.

   “Vat ish this, ‘Donkey Kong’?” Dr Ziegler asks, her mouth nearly full with sandwich, you can’t even look at her.

    _Shit,_ is about the only word that comes to your mind, because as you now remember, not everyone spent an aggressive amount of their youth playing old arcade games. Or playing hooky. These two look like the people who have never played video games in their life, not to mention classics. You hate yourself for even letting those words exit your mouth and your stupid cyborg head.

  Although Dr. Ziegler has no idea _how_ you messed up, you know she knows when after Winston finishes with your arms and goes to your back, she gives you a smile that doesn’t seem all that well meaning. You notice she’s wiped her mouth, and it’s as if her sandwich, and messy eating, never existed in the first place. Frightening.

  You’re more aware of the lack of scientist gorilla touch, small tools clinking away at your backside, a coolness hitting the inside of your back and your bones. It’s difficult for you to think about it in the literal sense even though it is very, very literal. Your bones don’t even feel like bones, just...extensions. You probably should have paid more attention to Dr. Ziegler’s talk, but self loathing and shock do get in the way of a lot of things.

  After he’s done, Winston says farewell to both you and Dr. Ziegler with the most awkward smile you’ve seen on anyone, not to mention a gorilla. He even bows his head at you, _bows._ The last time anyone did that to you was--

     _He never says he’s sorry, but you can feel the apology in his actions before the battle, you know he’s stuck between a force he’s never opposed and you. But he has gotten into fights with you, the clan is an entirely different story. The bow is what gets you, if you think about it in the future, you can feel tears prick your eyes because you know only one of you is getting out alive and---_

   “...are you well?” Dr. Ziegler asks, she is above you, her hand is touching your face your bare face and you never knew anyone seeing your face could make you feel this _vulnerable_ and knowing her, she can probably tell you’re broken. She’s quiet, running her teeth over her lower lip trying to find a way to heal you. She is well aware she is the one that saved and broke you at the same time, you don’t give her time to formulate one.

   “I will see you soon, I’d like to see what adjustments were made.” You try to make it seem more clipped than confused, but don’t listen to yourself long enough to find out.

   “Then I’ll see you then, my lunch break is almost over after all.”

  You close the door behind you as habit, before realizing _she schedules checkups during her lunch break no wonder she was eating in such an unholy fashion does she ever take a break_. You don’t like the way your concern sounds, it reminds you too much of the way you compensated for a brother who worked too much for too long, by being the exact opposite of what you were supposed to be. You decide to train by yourself that day, and for the days after that.

   The second time you come in for a checkup, she is doing a thousand things at once. Eating messily, typing some kind of data, checking your vitals before being called--repeatedly to deal with some small emergency. She is hurried and apologetic, and around halfway into her lunch break, when you are about to leave, a nurse comes in and says _I’m sorry he died in surgery there was nothing we could do_.

   “I understand,” Dr. Ziegler says, putting her hands on the nurse’s shoulders, “we did our best, we cannot save everyone, even with miracles on our side. The only thing we can do is continue to save the lives of those still with us.” The nurse nods, giving a quiet thank you before leaving, teary eyed and shaking. Dr. Ziegler closes the door.

   It is only after she realizes you’re still there that she tries to save face, pretend she doesn’t have a grief stricken look as if a member of her own family died. You can hardly emphasize, all you can do is ask her, “Was that someone you knew? I am sorry for your loss.”

   She shakes her head, “I only saw him before he was in surgery, everyone insisted I took a break and I...did not come here, to Overwatch, to relax. I came to save lives, to try and move towards _some_ kind of peace. The man was an agent attempting to secure a base for Overwatch, and I...failed to stop this from happened.”

    “You cannot control everything Dr. Ziegler.”

     “Ah, I know that too well, but that does not stop me from wanting to. The only thing I can do is continue to move towards the path I believe in.” She smiles at you, but it’s tight and forced. You cannot comfort her, nor do you know if you want to. You walk out of the room as she puts on her robe and you release a breath you weren’t aware you were holding.

  You see her in between checkups, she is wearing a winged suit and she asks if you are doing well, you say you are just fine, and if she has stopped grieving. She shakes her head.

   “I am not sure I have ever stopped, for we are all interconnected in ways we cannot comprehend, I believe it is fair to give those we’ve seen, even we do not know them, a moment of our time an an ounce of our grief.”

   “And what of those you do know?”

    “Well, that is much simpler. We are all connected, even if separated. That is what memories and our global network share. If you need to feel, all you need to do is remember what to find.” she says, and she is called off before you can think of a response. When she leaves, you decide to try and forget.

   The third time you come in is quick and uneventful, she is working on developing a new technology you don’t understand. For some reason, you ask about it as she checks you, and she explains, with a measured voice, what she is doing and why she’s doing it. You don’t understand a word, but can feel her excitement in the way her voice vibrates. She tells you about some of the other members, and for a reason you don’t know, you make an effort to say hello to the people you see.

   The fourth time you come in for a checkup, she’s drinking coffee, you see bags under her eyes as dark as Reyes’. In two hours you are going on your first mission to take down Shimada, and she insisted on you coming in even though you’d heard she was working at a near constant basis for the past three days. Winston even came in to check on you, gave you a look you couldn’t decipher when he informed you he learned what Donkey Kong was. Five minutes later he brought out a console, and you spent three hours you both were supposed to spend preparing playing a first person shooter. You had to admit, Winston was a fast learner, but you had years of playing hooky to back you up. He did manage to win a few rounds though, and said he’d beat you more next time. _Next time_ made you happier than it should have.

   She sends you out quickly, but when she asked how you are and you mention meeting with Winston, she smiles while she checks your pressure points. You still don’t understand why, of every inhuman thing you were given, you had to keep _those_ of all things. You didn’t particularly need extra sensation.

   “Winston has a kind soul,” she says, “but has difficulty making friends. I’m glad you spent time with him.”

   You don’t know what to say, and it takes you a moment to realize she doesn’t expect an answer. You leave, train, prepare. Reyes is your supervisor for these missions, and there are some agents on a ship behind you. You kill one of the men who used to view you with contempt, and block out the family he’s left behind. You are a weapon, you think. You are a weapon, you remember.

   By the fifth time, you learn she uses sweetener packets for her coffee. “I would rather use honey,” she says, “but every time I bring some in _someone_ happens to steal it. I am trying to figure out who in my spare time, this isn’t as easy as my peanut butter thief last year…”

    _Why not buy honey themselves? Why is she saying this? What spare time?_

     “Peanut butter thief?” you ask as she’s checking your heartbeat.

     “Winston has always been quite fond of peanut butter, and is not even remotely subtle. He apologized profusely, and I put extra containers around. I wonder if he developed that fondness on the moon…”

      “The moon?” you ask, because really, what else is there to ask.

      “Now, that is something you should ask him. It’d make a good story.” You think it’s already a good story, so you ask him. He gives you what feels like an abridged version, admits it’s strange. You think his origins go far past strange territory, but then, so does a criminal enterprise that still worries about honor and legacy.

   The sixth checkup consists of her constantly looking around at windows and doors. You don’t need to ask her before she says, “Adawe is coming for a progress check, the UN does not like to be kept waiting on any technology updates. Morrison usually talks with her, but he’s on a mission and anyone else is a non option. She’s always seeking _anything_ she can possibly know, and I am _not_ the right person.”

   “Are you attempting to avoid her by keeping me here?”

    “...oh no. My apologies, I am sorry I did not mean to.” Her eyes are still darting around windows and doors, and you realize she probably avoids this Adawe without even thinking about it. You didn’t want to pay attention to the politics of this place, nor do you want to know, but you note whoever this is must be important if they put Dr. Ziegler on edge. You’re a bit jealous actually. Perhaps if you came off the way Adawe did you wouldn’t be so...approachable? Non intimidating? You didn’t understand, you weren’t even a human being anymore.

    “Do not worry,” you say, “I don’t mind. This Adawe seems very intimidating, I understand feeling nonconfrontational.” You don’t say that being “non confrontational” for you meant avoiding any responsibility whatsoever by finding elaborate ways to get out of any sort of work that you didn’t deem pleasurable.

   When the door opens, it’s sudden and loud, and Dr. Ziegler damn nearly throws her coffee cup at the intruder. You’re trying not to make assumptions, but you don’t believe the name Adawe belongs to a giant man in an even more giant suit of armor. If you weren’t already convinced this place wasn’t normal after meeting Winston, this would have sealed the deal.

   The man _bellows_ at the sight of Dr. Ziegler in a minor panic, but that doesn’t last. The doctor sits down in her chair and smiles at the giant in the doorway.

   “Reinhardt, why in the _world_  are you wearing that suit in the medical wing, which I happen to keep clean, especially when _Adawe_ is coming to me and not Morrison? I hope you are wearing something under it, because you’re taking it off this instant.”

    Reinhardt only shuts the door behind him quietly, in what seems to be a rare show of subtlety. No man who intentionally puts himself in a suit of armor is trying to stay out of sight.

  “I shall in due time, but I come bearing news. Since I’ve already informed others with a message, I came to inform you our forces are no longer needed in King’s Row, with _no_ help from our resident dwarf. I will be off to meet with Amari within the hour.”

   “I don’t recall you having that...Reinhardt you’re going to have to retire at some point. You’re already in your fifties!” Dr. Ziegler raises her voice slightly at this, and you think about the dead man she barely knew and this man she knew by name. Reinhardt could clearly fit well into the armor, but he also fit into his white hair. Dr. Ziegler looks at you, then back at Reinhardt.

   “You can’t help them, and neither can I. No one can save them but themselves. But you are going to stay, as am I. So while you are here, would you care to introduce yourself to the man who is _supposed_ to be in my office?” You’re not sure whether chuckling would be a good idea, for all you know Reinhardt could crush you with his hands, and you don’t want another hospital stay.

    “Ah! Hello my friend, I am Reinhardt Wilhelm, and you?” He is loud and unusually enthusiastic for an introduction, most people worried about their first impressions, but seeing someone who simply wanted to put himself out there was strangely refreshing. Reinhardt extends his hand, and somehow it feels more life threatening than when you took Winston’s for the first time. You think it could be the suit of armor as you shake his hand.

   “Genji,” you say, “it is a pleasure to meet you.” Reinhardt doesn’t just grin, he laughs, wholeheartedly and loudly, and you realize your words were genuine, because his words always seem to be. You don’t tell people the way you smile after you let go, you don’t think you’re ready for anyone to know yet.

   “You have a good spirit, I can tell! But I know you’re lacking muscle!” Reinhardt grabs your left arm a little too tightly before turning his head to Dr. Ziegler, “Doc, he needs strength training, he’s like a bean sprout! I’ll take him, best of luck with Adawe!” He starts to pull you outside, and Dr. Ziegler plants her hands on her desk. But you hear new footsteps and hear her say something along the lines of, “Verdammt…”. You try not the think too much of it.

  Reinhardt goes out of his way to greet you after that. Greetings turn to some form of training you’ve never heard of in your life, which leads to you valuing your cyborg sleep more than you ever thought you would. You don’t dream the way you used to anymore, but the ability to turn yourself off isn’t half bad. Sometimes he even comes to play games when you’re with Winston, it’s louder and more chaotic but it reminds you of the parts of your past you didn’t mind remembering. You let yourself rest in a support you never expected and a nostalgia you never thought you wanted.

   During your seventh checkup, you ask Dr. Ziegler if she had to talk to Adawe, and she tells you how Morrison came in thirty minutes into her telling Adawe that she didn’t know about the engineering, and two weeks later he comes into her office to give her the largest tray of brownies she has ever seen, baked by the man himself. You realize why she has chocolate stains she hasn’t cleaned on her cheek, and she gives you a brownie. If you were asked, years into the future, about why you sometimes think of Dr. Ziegler as irritatingly selfless, it would be the fact that she offered you a brownie and smiled when you ate it. You’re not fond of chocolate.

  The Monday before your next checkup, you show an uncle the wrath of the dragon the moment after he mentions your father, and his daughter looks at you with angry tears and says _monster_ in a language only you can understand. She was fourteen years old and always tried to train with you and Hanzo, tripping over her feet before she ran to catch up. You try not to remember that she still is that very same girl, even if you will never be the Genji she knew again.

   The eighth time you come in for a checkup, Dr. Ziegler is on at _least_ her fifth cup of coffee. She uses two packets of sweetener for every cup, and you’ve seen eight empty ones on her desk. She looks at you, at first ungracefully startled (almost spitting out her coffee after making a choking noise) with what you’d assume was an attempt at a reassuring smile, but her eyes are twitching and she’s attempting to stifle a yawn. The moment you take the empty packets, throw them in the compost bin (you’ve been corrected several times about the fact that those packets are biodegradable, each time never understanding why it needs to be in a packet in the first place. Spoons exist for a reason) she thanks you. It hadn’t taken much time for her to pick up (after the third time she ate in front of you) that you were a fairly neat person, which is probably why you had never seen her this disheveled before. Messy, yes, but even with her eating habits, she always seemed to have everything in the order she wanted. Even avoiding Adawe didn’t drain her this much. As someone who spent a majority of your youth _not_ living up to others’ expectations, her strange gestures of selfishness did a lot more to irritate you than you’d let on.

    “Would you prefer I come in at a later time?” you don’t want to pose it as a question, you’d rather admit that it bothers you when people give so much of themselves to an organization they know will never give enough back. Your mind thinks _Hanzo,_ but you look at Dr. Ziegler in front of you, looking at the way her eyes close a bit longer than they should when she takes another sip of coffee. You also wouldn’t mind asking _how much sleep did you get, as a doctor, you should keep yourself in better health_ but you don’t know if that would sound concerned or condescending. You don’t know which one you want it to be.

    “No, no, no,” each syllable becomes increasingly more quiet as she says it, “zis won’t take long, I’ll simply go through your vitals, along with your core functions, and see how the status of the operation is.” She replaces her cup with her tablet and pen, giving it another glance before she sets it down on coaster with some kind of diamond pattern. She motions for you to sit down, and you do just that, your hands rest at your sides as her hands ghost over this _thing_ she calls a body. You always try to blank out during these times, intentionally lose focus so you can try and forget how inhuman you’ve become. Usually these times are filled with absent minded conversation or something that makes you feel like you have a soul, but today she is silent. Even with this new form, you are still sensitive to touch, of any kind. What she does should hardly be considered intimate, but she has a delicacy about her that almost makes you believe it is. Panels are flipped, vitals checked along pulse lines that are both familiar and foreign to you, and for these moments you hate and love the woman who treats something like you so gently by routine.

   After recording her results onto her tablet, she once again sits behind her desk, taking a long sip of what seems to be lukewarm coffee. Putting it down with a small sigh, she turns to you with a more convincing smile. You reach for her coffee, hold it in both hands. It takes a moment for the coffee to heat up again, and you place it gently on her coaster.

  “Danke, I’m glad you’ve found use in this form outside of battle, even if it is in assisting me with my caffeine intake.” She puts down her tablet with a smile, “This is related to what I wanted to talk to you about, how has your body been treating you?”

  “It has been useful for missions, I have been told this operation has been progressing more quickly than expected.”

   “I am aware of that, but I wanted to know how it’s been treating _you_ , this operation and its circumstances didn’t automatically turn you into a killing machine, you _are_ a human being after all, we all have it in us to be good.” You beg to differ, you’ve become disjointed, broken, and capable of anything asked of you. _Human_ isn’t the right word to describe you, not anymore.

   “It has been fine,” you reply, and it’s clear even you don’t believe your own words. She doesn’t either: if the purse of her lips counts for anything. Instead of breaking eye contact, she looks at you as she reaches for her cup, and takes a long sip.

    “I know this is hypocritical of me, but I did not intend for you to feel like this. I wanted you to be a man, not a weapon.”  In the time you’ve spent since you lost your humanity, you’ve learned that your weapons became extensions of your body. She knew the facts when she did this, and you were only somewhat aware of the consequences. You wish the way you clenched your fists was tight enough to break the machine of you into pieces. It isn’t, and you hate the fact _she’s_ the one who looks distressed.

    “Why are you saying this? Your organization made a choice to use my information and my body, and I will comply as long as needed. There is no need for you to be concerned beyond that.” Your voice feels cold in a way you’re not used to. You made your mark and your mistakes on being carefree, and this feels like the you you used to know.

    Dr. Ziegler however, does not seem particularly fazed, only letting out a small sigh. Later, you’ll realize that sigh was a regret and a premonition at once, but now you stay silent. You know what speaking out of hand can bring, so you simmer and you listen to someone you can’t comprehend.

   “You are using Overwatch as well, are you not?”

 You nod. She looks down at the papers and tablet on her desk, “Well, I am using the same method as you, for a different purpose, but zat is not what I’m concerned with.” Her accent gets thicker as she speaks, she lets out another sigh, “For as long as I remember, I have never felt home in my body, it was branded by things I could not escape, and I believed those were weaknesses. I have never been so wrong in my life. Overwatch is imperfect, and I know there is a lot more death than I will _ever_ approve of, but this organization hasn’t just given me what I wanted, it has given me what I needed. Try to find comfort here during your stay.”

  “My apologies, but I do not think I will find that, I have lost that part of me.” You stand up and head for the door in a swift motion, “I must prepare for a later mission, farewell Dr. Ziegler.”

  She gives you a small wave and a smile you see out of the corner of your eye. The door closes behind you, and you almost feel guilty for lying. You don’t need to prepare at all, if there’s anything you’ve kept, it’s the fact that you’re a fast learner. It’s 14:56, you’re expected at the loading deck by 18:00, and Reyes is a punctual man. You climb up a watchtower, cross your legs, and hate the way you can go into sleep mode. How you can time it so you never oversleep again. You close your eyes and let your world end around you.

   You don’t dream anymore, not in the way you’re used to. Fantasy is replaced by a sequence of recollections, recent or significant memories. You see white walls, Hanzo, shuriken, and Dr. Ziegler. Reyes and Morrison go in and out of the sequence, and you see your face and want to disappear because you will never be what you once were.

    _“...it was branded by things I could not escape, and I believed those were weaknesses.”_

You open your eyes, Reyes is already there. You leap down the watchtower in a fluid motion, walking to the loading deck. He nods his head in greeting, and walks forward. Naturally, you follow. You know he will always be quiet, but expect you not to enter any kind of sleep mode when you were close to landing. You might’ve lost some of your fondness for conversation, but you’re not one for uncomfortable silences. Shimada was always quiet in the wrong ways, and you always needed to be _heard_. The flight to Hanamura is approximately seven hours, and you know you can shut off for six of those. Reyes would be awake when you closed your eyes, and awake when you open them. It reminds you of Hanzo, so naturally, you “dream” of death.

  When you wake up, you’re experiencing the closest thing to a cold sweat you can imagine. You see Reyes, again with that severe expression. You remember being told about death, about the way it’s linked to honor and sanctity. But now you bring it to the place that used to be your home. You wonder if that is what the clan will view you as: a symbol of death, you wonder if that’s what you want.

  When you ask Reyes about symbols of death and how you will be remembered in Hanamura, in Japan, if you are at all, you don’t expect an answer. You’re asking more for your own sake, but he responds.

   “Barn owls,” he says, “was always taught they brought death. If you want to make an impact, make yourself a force of nature.”

  “I understand,” you say, because you don’t know what else to say. He gives you an amused  chuckle in return, and you’re not sure if he’s mocking you. You land in a slightly freer silence, and prepare to give into the fight.

   You wonder if it’s Reyes’s words or your previous successes that cause you to run, near freely, towards your next location. You remember when this was your home, you always put your all into being vibrant, whether it was in your gestures or your dyed green hair. Somehow, you’re faced with a mob of people you never regarded with guns aimed at you.

   Really, it probably wasn’t a good idea to taunt them. You were told explicitly not to use anything that would identify you as a Shimada recently, so you run and slash and throw and almost feel a sense of joy from how detached you are from it all.

   _Stay vigilant,_ the Hanzo in your head says, voice as stern as usual. If he was here you’d laugh, you were vigilant every time except when it actually meant something. You think you’re allowed to be reckless, to show them all you--

  Later, when you mention your injury, you’ll say it’s carelessness that cause the throbbing on your side from at _least_ two bullets planted somewhere near your rib cage. You say you’re grateful you weren’t human enough to die from it. A man who dresses like he’s in an American western movie will laugh and tell you, _this is why ya don’t bring a knife to a gunfight_. You’d tell him: he should meet your brother, Hanzo brings a bow and arrows to any fight. It will be the first time you refer to Hanzo as your brother without contempt, and everyone except you will take it as a sign of healing.

   But now you are near bleeding out, armed men surround you, and you see the swords embedded in your back and the inhuman abilities you’ve gained. Combined with the legacy you’re aiming to destroy, you know what you have to do. There cannot be any survivors.

  “Ryūjin no ken o kurae,” were words you used to say with passion. Your words fall flat, and you draw your blade before they can register the words they heard. It is fast _too_ fast, side steps run, run, _run,_ always attack from the side or behind. It’s over in a few minutes, and covered in blood: a mix of yours and those who should have been family. You don’t recall how you get back, you remember Reyes barely whispered _holy shit_ before hoisting your arm over your shoulder. He’s quiet as he performs what you assume is some form of emergency medical treatment on a moving ship. He keeps you awake in ways that remind you less of a commander and more of some caricature from a drama, and only lets you lose consciousness after you stop moving.

    “I do _not_ approve of this! This is a reckless mission, filled with senseless death and violence, how did you _think_ this was acceptable? _No!_ You do not get to speak to me right now! You don’t get to be negligent of someone’s well being because of a goddamn _spat!_ You have your information, so you are going to get _out_ of my medical wing and fix it. This. Instant.”

   Heavy footsteps, too men spitting harsh words, you recognize their voices, but don’t care to make the distinction, you lack the energy to think about who they are. Your eyes refuse to open, and you feel something around your mouth. Something about this space tells you it would be unwise to speak. More footsteps are pacing around you, you hear a stool being pulled, the rustling of a bag, and things being opened.

    “Doctor, are you alright? We can handle this, feel free to take a break.”

     “No worries, this _is_ my break. I just wanted some time to touch up my makeup, see?”

      A sigh of...relief? “Ah, um, would you like me to bring you a snack?”

      “No thank you, I am not hungry. I appreciate your kindness though, I know you will do good work in the future.”

       “...thank you Dr. Ziegler!” was this person _skipping_ out of the room, you’re sure that doesn’t follow any hospital protocol. You hear another sigh, a familiar _verdammt_ , and what you now know is the sound of brushes against skin. Humming of something that sounds like a nursery rhyme, the tapping of a foot. Dr. Ziegler, always the multitasker.

      Of course, your eyes decide to open when she’s finally in some sort of form of relaxed, though you’re convinced Dr. Ziegler is incapable of doing nothing at all. You expect her to be the startled you’re used to, dropping a compact, an almost shout, something you can handle. Instead, she gives you a glare and smacks you straight across the face.

     “What,” you say, and in your defense, you delivered it eloquently for being slapped in the face right after you woke up. She grabs your face again, checking if she left a mark (she did), and sighs.

     “I believe I deserved that,” you supply. She moves her hands from your face, and you can’t believe you didn’t notice this earlier. Her hands are _freezing_. You’re sure it’s her hands and not anything with the room, because the latter actually has a normal temperature.

     “I agree with you,” she says, “it’s always the _men_ who are stupidly reckless. I thought it was bad as a girlfriend, no, as a doctor it’s _worse._ ” She’s grumbling at this point, and you’d smile at it if you weren’t nervous she’d beat you to death herself.

     “Ex boyfriends are always hard to handle,” you let your lips stretch into a small smile. You don’t know if the pain in your face is because of her or you. If you think about it, both were in some way because of you.

     “Do you know from having one or being one, there is a difference you know,” she is still slightly irritated, you can hear it in her voice. But there’s a smile twitching on her lips as she holds devices over your heart and your sides. You vaguely remember you were shot, multiple times. Things start making a little more sense again.

       “Both,” you say, “ex girlfriends have always been a bit easier in that regard. More thoughtful, less concerned about who is...um...how do I say this…” She blinks once, twice, before realizing you’re trailing on purpose. Then she laughs, and this time she isn’t holding back food from spraying and it’s as loud as it is short. She gains her composure by smoothing her clothing before returning to her work.

   “I don’t understand the need to make that distinction with men, ex girlfriends have always been simpler. Depends on the situation, you understand, correct?” You’re not sure if she’s making some sort of innuendo or a reference to the fact you both share the trait of being bisexual. She’s silent, except for a small smirk of all things, and you realize it’s _both._ You wouldn’t be surprised if this is secretly a lucid dream, an exception to the rule of recall.

   “However,” you barely hear the _r_ sound in the word, “you cannot enable the recklessness of these ‘missions’ any longer, I am using my authority to suspend you from missions related to the Shimada clan.”

   Before you can _think_ of a reaction, something to say, you see the way she smiles, her eyes are tired, she feels like she is everywhere at once, including places you cannot have experienced. You see now that her makeup was just applied, even though you heard her earlier, that her ponytail is disheveled in a way you’d only see if you were in close proximity. She brushes a few stray hairs away from her face and sighs.

   “I am a doctor, some say I am a miracle maker for everything I have built. But it is simply because I had a desire to build something out of nothing when I was young, and that is a habit that has stayed with me. Because of what I was made to be, it is rare that I find myself simply being a woman. This is something I have accepted as right for me, but you cannot be a weapon. It is not sustainable, and I refuse to let recklessness cause you to lose your life.” You know she isn’t looking for an answer the moment she removes herself from you and leaves the room in a fluid motion.

   You are angry, at her and yourself, and you don’t want to figure out _why_ because that is a mess you don’t want to clean up. Being a weapon is simple, it is what you were wanted for, it is easy. It does not hurt you, you think, but you can’t believe yourself. Your transformation from human to blade has a body count and a hospital stay, the angry doctor is a bonus. You don’t expect to calm down, you do. You don’t expect her to come back, she does, two days later, with coffee, a sandwich, napkins, and crackers.

    She hands you a container of saltine crackers, and unwraps her sandwich. “Anyone in the hospital needs some company,” is what she says before you even ask. You don’t notice she doesn’t have her tablet until you realize she is just messily eating her sandwich and not messily eating her sandwich with her tablet. It doesn’t do much to improve her eating habits. When tomato sauce manages to get on your hospital gown, you can’t say you’re surprised.

   “You manage to eat so messily, it’s almost a feat,” you make sure it comes off lighthearted, and when you think about it, you aren’t prepared for her response.

    “I never grew up with anyone to teach me, living during the war meant you took what you got, and I was always, ahhh, too flustered to let anyone teach me. Though I notice you’re rather tidy, I haven’t seen a single crumb fall on you, with the exception of mine.” she seems to have expected saying that as much as you did, which is not at all. You let her control the pace of the conversation.

   “The less mess there is, the easier it is for me to focus. Many were surprised when they found I was neater than my brother when it came to space, for he was more put together than me in every other way. But then, they were also surprised I cooked for myself, I avoided any other responsibility.” Talking about Hanzo doesn’t feel as bitter as you expected, and you let the words flow into easy conversation you didn’t know you needed.

    “Do you find pleasure in cooking? I never have, even when I was told it’s a science by Reinhardt of all people.” her emphasis on Reinhardt is subtle, as most of her speech is, but you chuckle and see the way her face lights up.

     “I started to impress my friends, and later my exes, but I find it fun. Something I liked that I chose to improve in outside of the clan, things like this were a privilege I understood.” You don’t mention all the privilege you had that you didn’t understand, she knows your last name.

     “Mmm,” she says, “I envy you.” She doesn’t specify what she envies you for, you think  it’s likely more than one thing. You lived in privilege, and from what you know of her, she didn’t. You don’t resent her for the comment, it wasn’t meant to be rude, it was simply a statement.

    “And I envy you as well,” you reply, and you choose not to specify as well. She has a purpose, something to build towards, she is allowed to follow that dream and do what she feels she needs to do. She can be known for something she’s chosen to be known for. Most people would look at her: her job, her schedule, the fact that she’s in Overwatch, as chains. They would be wrong. You’ve seen the suit she wears to battle, seen the way she glides across floors when she wants to hurry, every expression she makes is a choice, and she is in control more often than people think. She is the freest person you know, and you envy her for it.

  You are silent together, she wipes her mouth, you empty the box of crackers. She tells you you’re expected to recover in a a week at most. It takes four days for you to be officially checked out of the medical ward. Every day someone comes to visit. Dr. Ziegler stops both Winston and Reinhardt from injuring you again, with very different tones. Reyes comes in the dead of night with a gruff _sorry_ and a pat on the shoulder, you accept his apology, understanding it’s just as awkward as anyone else’s would be. It was your fault as well. Morrison comes in early in the morning with sugar cookies and apologizes in a significantly less awkward manner, and you wonder how two men can be so in and out of sync at the same time. You hear about a promotion a few hours later, and a lot of things come into context.

   Then, you are out, and near immediately taken by Reinhardt to a series of training dummies.

     “Winston’s got some fancy award he was nominated for, and it is up to _us_ , as his friends and fellow Overwatch members, to set up a celebration for him!” as grand sounding as ever, but you agree. Winston deserves recognition, you’ve heard he’s been doing things that would make him go places, something about a chronal-

    “Loves!” A flash of bright blue shows up between you and Reinhardt, “I heard somethin’ bout our Winston, just in time to say I’m helping ya out!” The first thing you think when you see the woman is energy, her hair is messy in a way that feels natural, her eyes are brown and constantly darting around, as if she’s waiting to slip out of the world at any moment.

   “Ah damn! Forgot t’ introduce myself, Lena Oxton here, but you can call me Tracer! Now, where were we?”

   Where they were, according to Tracer, was preparation for a “Winston Appreciation Day”, it takes her an extra repetition to figure out what in the world she’s saying, you ask Reinhardt if it’s normal not to understand her, he slaps your back (you believe it was supposed to be a pat) in response and says she’s so British not even they can understand her sometimes. She is darting around with fabric, scissors, and various printing technology. She updates you both in three words or less, before everything is set up to her liking.

   “And _here_ is what we’re gonna do! Whether our love gets the silly award or not, he’s gon’ feel fan _tastic_ once we’re done with ‘im. Now, I’m no seamstress, but I got permission from the bosses t’ set up an _official_ Overwatch certificate! And there’s nothin’ I’m better at than steering!” She bolts for the machinery she set up before you can say a word, and you have a feeling this is a common pattern for her. Reinhardt gets out of his suit of armor for the first time since you’ve met him (and it has been a _long_ time). He is just as burly as you imagined, and wearing a bodysuit of sorts: gray, black, and white, with the overwatch logo on one of the shoulders. Your eyes move to Tracer, who you see has a similar suit. The bright blue device strapped to her chest was most likely where the blue flash came from, and it’s as if they both read your mind at once because they look at you at the same time. Reinhardt laughs, and Tracer looks aghast.

   “You’re practically _naked!_ You’ve been here longer than me and you didn’t even get the suit! Unless you like being less dressed, I mean I got nothin’ against that, it’s just a lil odd, ya gotta understand, right?” You’ve never wanted to overheat more in your life. Reinhardt is still grinning at you, and Tracer wears a twitchy smile but still looks slightly scandalized.

    “Where do I get this suit?” you ask, and you feel yourself burn. Tracer gives a more sincere smile, and Reinhardt once again starts his near constant bellow. Tracer politely points to the right, and you do not _run._ You just happen to power walk. You’ve heard the term used to describe Dr. Ziegler. Surely you can use it for yourself.

    You happen to be power walking, too flustered with the realization that people viewed you as _naked_ to notice much else until you feel an arm pull you back.

   “Easy there partner,” you’re turned around, and a man in a cowboy hat of all things gives you a look of concern. But then, you’re a cyborg, so you don’t have room to judge. He’s _tall_ too, wearing a suit similar to Reinhardt and Tracer’s, except in all black. Probably a division in Overwatch, with Morrison and Reyes having some sort of rift.

   “Name’s McCree,” he says, without you even having to ask. You’re tempted to say _I did not ask_ , but looking over your shoulder you realize he pulled you away from a ledge. As if you weren’t already on a roll of self mortification.

    “I am Genji,” you say, “you have my thanks.”

     “Whoa there, no need t’ get formal with me. What’re ya lookin’ for here in the first place. Ain’t much here except the...oh. It’s t’ the left, though I’m ashamed to say you can’t get the black one. Not sure if orange is your color, but it’s gon’ have to work.” Just like an ancient Western American film, he tips his hat as a sign of courtesy. This is bizarre. He gives a grin as if you’re thick as thieves, instead of him giving you directions, and walks out whistling what _sounds_ like a banjo song. You’ve never been able to feel the banjo in someone’s voice before, but McCree is your brand new exception.

    In the room, you see a suit folded up on a table. You take it, look at the room surrounded by boxes. You unfold the suit, with the grey and black and carrot orange stripes along both the sides. You slip it on, and it’s only when you see yourself in the reflection of the table. The green glint where your eyes are, combined with the orange of your brand new Overwatch bodysuit, and wonder if today was created just to spite you. You hope no one else made the connection, no one here knew you in your youth after all.

    Thankfully, no one points it out when you come back to the setup of Winston Appreciation Day. Tracer stops a minute to give you a smile and a sigh of relief, Reinhardt is too focused on cutting a long strip of white fabric with scissors smaller than his hands.

    “Wait, loves! Loves! Everybody this is code, uh, I dunno, code peanut butter! We don’t have th’ cookies! The big guy _has_ to have peanut butter cookies, homemade of course, and the bosses aren’t here to whip it up. Banana nut muffins might be optional, but the cookies! Augh!” Tracer is making so many expressions at once but her distress is clear. Reinhardt yells out a _this banner must be done!_ He doesn’t look away from the cloth he’s cutting. The cowboy impersonator McCree is nowhere to be found, and Tracer is looking at you with eyes similar to a puppy’s.

    “Love, can you bake?” This is it. You’re baking in a place you wanted to use. Is there even a kitchen? What are you going to do about ingredients, is there a specific recipe you need to follow? Will cyber agility be useful in baking?

    “Yes,” you say, and really, you do not know what you’re signing up for.

      Within fifteen minutes, Tracer leads you to a kitchen you didn’t know existed, pins up a recipe on the wall, and brings back ingredients in a way that’s so disorganized you’re sorting while she’s plopping things into the kitchen.

    “Best of luck to ya, I believe in you uh, green cyborg ninja dude!” You don’t try to correct her, she is gone before you could take a breath. So, like anyone with a large task in front of them, whether it’s baking a gorilla peanut butter cookies or taking down your former clan, you let your body do the work while your mind drifts elsewhere. It’s a more pleasurable form of dissociation, a time where you can remember people without the ways they have hurt you. You slow down when you go faster than the pace you used to have. It might be disappointing, but you want to pretend you’re human while you still can. Tracer’s words, quick and careless as they were, reminded you that you would be perceived as a machine for the rest of your life, and it’s in moments where you are alone when you can pretend otherwise.

    It’s when you’re putting your first batch of cookies in the oven that someone yells, “Take your hands out of the oven, you do not have oven mitts!” coming into the kitchen towards the oven at an incredibly fast pace for… Dr. Ziegler?

     “Genji? Is zat you?” her voice is loud, and you can hear an echo in this incredibly large kitchen. Oh, you realize, she can’t see you.

     “I am not Genji,” you say, “my name is...green cyborg ninja dude.”

      “Well green cyborg ninja dude, do not joke with me here, you must wear oven mitts no matter what, let me come bring them to you.” You don’t hear her footsteps, so you quickly shut the oven door after pushing the cookies in.

   “Ah, and what did I just say?” You’d heard Dr. Ziegler had a battle suit with wings, but you never thought she’d use them in a kitchen just for you. That sounded strange. It wasn’t for you, it was for kitchen safety.

    You extend your hands, “I don’t feel a thing,” she puts her left hand on yours and shakes her head. Behind her back, she pulls a pair of bright green oven mitts, and slips them on your hands.

   “See? That was easy! This oven can fit at least four of those trays, I see they’re all filled up, so do _not_ sneak around because they’re troublesome! Now, I must assist with this Winston Appreciation Day, best of luck!” Similar to Tracer, she flies off before you can say a word. You open the oven to add more cookies, allow your internal clock to function, and work a little less human but a little bit happier. You’re not sure leaving roots here is a good idea, and you’ve never been good at long term decisions that weren’t rooted in stubbornness. You decide to enjoy the time and not think much of it.

     When Tracer comes, all eight batches of peanut butter cookies are relatively cool, and you have finally taken off your oven mitts. Her mouth opens slightly, then morphs into a smile as she walks towards you, at a pace that isn’t just a blue blur.

      “Those are... _wicked_ green cy- augh! M’ sorry I didn’t ask for your name earlier, been a bit out of it since the accelerator got on me,” she taps the device on her chest, “so what’s your name love? Can’t call ya green ninja or speedy _forever_ now can I?”

    “My name is Genji,” you say, she smiles, at first broad, then turning into more of a smirk. You really hope she didn’t make the carrot connection.

     “So Genji, wanna race?” her look screams daring, and you realize she’s just as reckless as everyone else that seems to be in your life lately. But the offer is tempting, even though it’s most likely a losing battle. You do enjoy competition, so you nod, and she grabs a tray of cookies that’s covered, you follow suit.  It takes you a moment to register she wants to race you while you’re both carrying cookies, and at go you run as fast as you can while holding cookies. She wins, something you really should have predicted, and she has the courtesy to put the cookies down before jumping in joy. You find you don’t mind it at all.

   When you and Tracer put the rest of the cookies on a table, Reyes and Morrison are on opposite sides of the area, backs turned, Reinhardt is hanging one side of the white with red lettering reading: CONGRATULATIONS, Dr. Ziegler is on the other side, using her wings to compensate the height advantage Reinhardt had. McCree is talking to a woman in blue and holding a sniper rifle. A man with short stature and a long beard tied into two braids comes up to them, he is loud, even though you can’t decipher what he’s saying, you can hear his volume. He motions for the woman to come with him, and when she walks off, McCree turns to see you,. Believe it or not, he actually says _howdy_. Before he can say anything else, Tracer interrupts.

     “Come on, we’re running out of time! I got the certificate, is everythin’ set up, he’s coming _any minute!_ ”

      “Who’s coming any minute?” the thing about Winston’s voice, is that it’d be distinct if it belonged to a human, but everyone knew it well because it belonged to a scientist gorilla. It’s almost comical the way everyone turns, but Tracer shouts _go!_ And things start happening. Confetti, some form of sniper rifle fireworks, running with only light screaming. People surround Winston in an instant, and naturally, you follow. Tracer comes behind him, tapping his shoulder.

   “Hey big guy, we got something for ya, after we’re gonna take a photo, to celebrate!” She loops to give Winston what you will later discover is an Overwatch certificate of greatness, for making the world a better place. If he has tears in his eyes, you certainly don’t notice them. There is a lot of leaping and cheering and someone sets up a camera that will automatically take photographs after a set amount of time. Winston is in the middle, of course, Tracer bouncing in joy at his side, Reinhardt wrapping one arm around Winston before pulling you to his other side. You don’t register his words, but you know they are unconditionally kind, you wish you knew what to feel. McCree comes to your left, laughs and puts his arm around you as if you are the best of friends, and you find a comfort you didn’t expect. You see the woman in blue, stern faced, next to McCree, and glance to see Morrison and Reyes not so subtly ignoring each other. Morrison puts in some effort by putting a hand on the short bearded man’s shoulder, who laughs like a man who needs to share everything he has with the world. Dr. Ziegler is next to Tracer, clapping while blatantly ignoring her bosses, it reminds you more of yourself than you’d expect.

    She smiles at you when you make eye contact, _pose,_ she mouths, so you put your hands on your hips as a joke and a show of pride. Pride for the feeling of home you gained in that moment, immortalized in a photograph. Afterwards your cookies are eaten, Winston gives you the tightest hug you’ve ever received, it’s a boisterous afternoon, and you remember everything you used to have in your old life, and find it here.

   That is how it is for some time, winding around in missions outside your purpose, knowing names and prejudices and joys like the back of your hand. Dr. Ziegler lifts her suspension, and you think you wouldn’t mind sticking around.

   Before you know it, you are on a loading deck with Reyes and a near excessive amount of backup. You were told earlier other agents would be coming in smaller groups. You are told who will be there, and you wish you’d remember but you can’t. You are thinking of your former home, the finality of everything. This is the end of your goal, your purpose, and there’s a part of you that is already empty. You can’t even bring yourself to sink into recall, you are awake, but you’ve lose the ability to be present. You’re lucky Reyes isn’t talkative, lucky no one who’d ask questions is with you. With him by your side, you are with a wraith, practically alone. You decide to enjoy the seven hours of almost solitude, mind near black. You are a weapon, you repeat, because repetition is emphasis of a truth.

    You allow yourself to move when everything around you stills. You almost want to be nostalgic, familiar places and faces you’ve run from surround you as you approach Shimada, the clan, the place, the entity. They do not know you by your name, they shout _intruder_ and curses they don’t care you understand. It’s almost too easy to pretend they aren’t faces you thought of fondly. So many _almosts_ but you do not show mercy. They must be taken down, along with the clan.

   That doesn’t mean you aren’t careful. You remember words of concern, a hospital stay, and  your brother cause you to seek high places. You’re not sure what would happen if you faced Hanzo, but you do not seek him out. He wanted an empire? Now he will see it burn.

   You know there is no need to go to your old room, and you aren’t surprised when it is pristinely empty. You know the intelligence side of this operation will be closing in soon, in forty three minutes to be exact. You need to be on the loading deck in twenty, you go into your brother’s room.

   It is empty, but you walk around until you hear a creak that seems off. There is no need for you to dig out floorboards, but you do as if it is the last thing you will do. That is when you see them: a framed photograph, your sword, and...all of your things? From the headband to the arcade charms, everything is buried in the room of the man that killed you and you know there are tears welling in your eyes but you can’t bring yourself to care. You release the frame that covers your face, take every item out of its grave, and weep for what feels like an eternity.

   How does he do this? It was his dream, you knew it well, to be the leader of the clan, his family. He was protective and dutiful and so _stubborn_ and he gave you a grave in the place he rested until he could no longer rest. He’s gone, you think, and you don’t know where and you don’t want to lose him. But then, you probably lost him the moment you decided to give everything up and refused to back down.

   Here’s what happens: you are crying in a way you haven’t cried since your father died, Hanzo is the ghost you were meant to be, and something you will later recognize as forgiveness washes over you. You loved, you _love_ him still, and you wish you could have changed it and you wish you could find him and say _you need to forgive yourself, my stupid, kind, lonely brother._

Hanzo does not find you, but you find a sack, where you pour everything from the grave he buried under the floorboards of his former room. The moment you arrive at the loading deck, you know you cannot be a weapon. But humanity was already lost on you.

   Here’s what you do: you tell Morrison and Reyes, separately, that you are a dead man walking. You tell them to bid farewell to others in your stead, you do not stop to see the people you held dear, because you cannot love without crushing something in hands that are no longer human.

   You leave, unintentionally drifting towards places that you believe cannot shape you. The you of years later would try and say you have never been so wrong, but you have a habit of misjudging your capability of finding exactly what you need.

   It feels like a vacation you never wanted to take, even though you are aware your purpose is over, and the feeling of being discontent stays strong, a part of you wants to go back, even though you have already made your choice. But you don’t. Instead you wander, fight, travel to places you will remember as a blur when recalling but as a series of landmarks when the information is needed. You keep your photographs, your reminders from homes you never realized were yours until it was too late, and love for those you choose to remember. You still don’t know how you’d tell Hanzo _I have loved beyond boundaries and I only learned it when it was too late, I never stopped loving you brother, but I have now learned to forgive you._ You know now he’s left the clan, you hope your paths meet.

   You end up Nepal through a strange mix of serendipity and the fact that you _heard_ Overwatch agents were in India and you would still prefer to avoid your problems. Every time you see yourself you remember what you’ve done. You were a weapon once, and now you are simply sheathed. If you had a soul, you think you would’ve used it to show forgiveness towards people you weren’t previously attached to. If you had a soul, you’re sure you wouldn’t have left.

    If you explained how you and Master met, it would be simple: a boulder, a lot of running, and the most relaxed voice you’ve heard after a near death experience. He would explain the full story in elaborate detail. Believe it or not, there is a middle ground.

   You wanted to be alone, as you often were during your travels. Naturally, you took the path less traveled, not realizing the fact that you were on your way to a monastery. In your defense, you’d only heard of the Shambali in whispers, and there were really no signs saying **WARNING: OMINIC MONASTERY AHEAD, THINGS MIGHT HAPPEN**. “Things” referring to an ominic, floating aimlessly towards you. You look at the ominic, who still seems blissfully unaware of the fact of you being there or the ground shaking and you are _not_ letting a boulder turn someone into circuits and metal. The good thing about you? You’re a fast runner. The bad thing about you? You’re a fast runner and by the time you get down the small slope, an ominic in your arms you realize that this isn’t an ordinary machine. That you might have just kidnapped a monk from a monastery that was _known_ to keep to itself.

   You don’t know how long it takes for you to put the ominic down, but you do remember hearing the _thank you_ come from a voice that’s deeper than yours. You wonder if it’d be polite to ask how old it is, in a _well I just accidentally kidnapped you, so I believe it would be best to know who I took_ way.

   “Do not allow your mind to be plagued by taking me, you were doing a good deed, for both me and yourself.”

    “I am glad I was of service, do you need me to take you back?” You’re grateful the ominic wasn’t angry about the whole taking it at least 50 kilometers away from the mountains, which you just realized were the Himalayas. You have no idea how, but you’ve managed to hit a new low all in less than an hour.

     “There is no need, my time in the monastery was finished, you have done me a great service. I thank you my friend.” The last phrase vaguely reminds you of Reinhardt, friendly  and dedicated to an organization he believed in. If only you were capable of carrying the same sentiment. You turn away from the ominic, even though it cannot see your face, it doesn’t stop you from feeling too vulnerable for comfort.

     “Are you well?” the ominic asks, and Dr. Ziegler comes into your mind and you feel yourself going weak. There’s something about that concern, without knowing a thing about you, that makes you want to fall apart on the spot because it’s an unconditional kindness you can’t handle and you sure can’t reciprocate. You wish you could either embrace or throw away your sentimentality, because the middle ground makes you ill.

   “I sense chaos within you, but do not blame yourself. I have been told I am rather intuitive. Tell me what ails you.” the ominic is calm and rational and reaching out to you all at once and you take a step back because you are irrational and terrified of any sort of tenderness. You remember, once again, why you prefer to be alone.

    “I never asked for assistance, nor do I need any. I wish you well on your journeys-”

     “You are conflicted, are you not? You do not yet understand you are the harmony of man and machine.”

      “There is no harmony in my creation.” you hope all the bitterness in your experience comes out so this ominic, who doesn’t _know_ you or understand that you were made to be used will go on its way to convert those who are open to its teachings. But for some reason, you do not run from it as fast as you did down the slope. You are still.

      The ominic floats closer to you, takes your hand within its, and feels for something along your wrist? A pulse? “You and I, like those who are fully human, have bodies that contain souls. You were meant to be both man and machine, the reason there is chaos within you is because you have not learned harmony. You are capable of both harmonic and chaotic acts because you have a soul. My wish right now is for you to learn, as I did, that true self is without form. I would like to pass that on to you, will you allow me to do so?”

    “I do not know if I believe your teachings.” You don’t push away the ominic’s hand, it’s foreign and cold from a combination of metal and the mountain cold. You wonder if it’s feeling something you can’t feel yourself, and there’s a part of you that wants to know what it is and another that never wants to find again. You are still.

 “Come, travel with me then. There is a part of you that wants to learn to view yourself as whole.” The ominic moves away from the mountains, from what was most like its only home, into something it knows nothing about. Reckless, wholehearted, and willing to give someone like you a chance. You are not sure if it’s able, but there is a part of you that wants to hope. The ominic moves forward, and you follow.

 

   You learn, a half an hour into your travels, that the ominic is a male named Zenyatta. An hour into your travels, you realize you never said your own name. You introduce yourself as Genji, and he nods as if he knew that all along. Three and a half weeks into your travels, you learn he is sixteen years old. You’re confused and far more reluctant to take anything he says seriously. Sixteen year old you dyed your hair carrot top green and spent most of your time playing truant through arcade games and questionable companionship. As if you weren’t already skeptical with a shot of desperate at first. Yet you continue traveling with him, for reasons you don’t understand yourself.  He explains to you that you are his first official student, as everyone else he encountered outside of the monastery he snuck out to see. You’re mildly irritated at the fact that this reminds you more of popular dramas than an ominic monk giving some form of enlightenment to lost souls.

     You’re also sure Zenyatta knows no fear, because what other conclusion are you supposed to make when you both go to multiple places _known_ to hate ominics? Even the single minded revenge driven you in Overwatch knew roughly which areas contained the worst anti-ominic sentiment, but Zenyatta acts as if he is right at home. Do ominics have teenage rebellious phases? Is this one of them? If it was anything like yours it will be...unfortunate.

    You are both called soulless while you’re there, both denied rooms at hotels (though the fact that Zenyatta does not understand too much about the concept of money helps), and it takes you most of the day to find a place that will take you.

    “Why are we here?” you ask, you can hear your own doubts in your voice. You’re sitting down on one of the two rickety beds, arms crossed. You can hear things buzzing around in the room, and it’s not either of your systems.

     “Did you see the hatred in their eyes?” He seems calm for someone who was mistreated, you don’t know if you’re supposed to envy that. Your brother was calm too, but he always hid things until it was too late.

      “I do not see who wouldn’t. They make no effort to hide it.” To you, it is another form of honesty. There are those who are open in their love, those open with their hatred. Those who hate choose to be loud, even those who aren’t the victims of it can see that.

      “Do you believe their blind hatred is a strategy to overcome their struggles?” You watch the orbs that surround him rotate, always within perfect distance of each other. Was it natural or some form of power you don’t yet understand?

     “I do not believe it’s as complicated as you make it seem. Their hatred is a choice that comes from fear of change.” Self hatred included, you remember how hatred twists itself in forms you don't understand, how it can fuel acts of misguided love. Perhaps you are the one that is making this overly complicated.

       “I believe those who hate blindly lack peace within themselves. The best way to help them find the harmony they need is to understand they are all individuals, with personal paths they need to take to find peace within their souls.” Zenyatta speaks with calm inflection, he enunciates at a steady pace, he was a voice that makes you feel as if you’re not in a disgusting motel room. It’s as comforting as it is frustrating.

     “Are you planning on teaching those people as well?” you don’t see how he could. He’s a child attempting to take on such a large scale issue one person at a time. You’re tempted to bring him up the Himalayas yourself, gift wrapped and all.

     “If I am able to guide one person, their words can reach further than I could alone. But for now my student, I aim to teach you.” You might have been able to process those words better if someone, with a gun, barges into your room, yelling something about _ominic scum_ with more men following him. You draw out your swords, and you know Mccree’s words are about to be proven wrong. You can bring a knife to a gunfight and _win._

“Still yourself my student, I will take care of this.” Zenyatta’s orbs seem to spin more... _aggressively?_ He extends his right arm quickly and an orb, surrounded in some kind of energy, flies towards one of the assailants. He extends his left arm in the same fashion, and another orb flies out, hitting the man straight in the face and sending him flying into the corner of your room. You hear in this order: smashing, a wall cracking, and the sound of the dim corner lamp of your room. It was the only light source in this room, you’ll miss it dearly.

     Just because a sixteen year old ominic monk can crush teeth by flinging orbs doesn’t mean he knows what he’s doing. You see another piece of the mob trying (and failing) to be subtle about sniping with a pistol, none of them know a pro about having extensive training and a faster cyborg body is being able to deflect bullets. You almost can’t believe yourself, because you’re _smiling_ as you run towards the learning sniper and jab him in the neck with the blunt edge of your sword. Before the others in the back notice, you move to your right towards the other side of the doorway, taking them out with relative ease. Hell, you even punched a burlier one in the _face._ The last time you did that was when you were seventeen and _far_ less successful, and this punch does the trick just fine. Enough shock for you to give your victim a jab to the stomach. One of Zenyatta’s purple aura’d orbs hits one of your future targets just as you’re about to deal yet another body blow, and the poor soul gets knocked out before you even add a finishing touch. Another orb comes after you get a little too cocky, not expecting a punch after near excessive taunting. It has a yellow aura, and you feel like you’re healing? Somehow, the thought makes your smile border a grin, because you feel like a child again in the best way and you’re learning to dodge more blows as you take them, learning how to fight with a sixteen year old former monk outside an old disgusting room and you’re _happy_.

   When the last two of a small mob are left standing, they both decide, in a last attempt at strategy, to charge from opposite sides at Zenyatta. For all his wisdom, he doesn’t see it coming, but you do. In an overly showy fashion, you flip over Zenyatta, take the men’s heads, and bash them together unceremoniously. Hanzo would scold you for it, and your father would laugh. Your heart warms at the thought, so with a push of a button, you run your hands over your face, not as proof of injury, but as a connection to those you love. You don’t remember Zenyatta’s presence until he’s in front of you, as serene and reckless as ever.

   “You need to be more careful, even as a former monk, you are still a child with a lot to learn.”

    “...as do you. I suggest we seek another place of residence, perhaps in another village?”

    “I thought this was all a part of your lesson, I do not see a reason to leave, we broke the lamp right around night, I’m _sure_ it won’t be noticed.” You’re grinning. You know you’re grinning, and so does he because he can see your face. You let him, you’ve learned every kid needs to be pushed, even the best and especially the worst. The latter is from experience.

    “I am leaving.” No one will believe you when you say it, but Zenyatta sounded slightly _pouty_ . You would’ve laughed too, but you didn’t want to make more of a scene than you probably, no, _definitely_ already did.

     You do not find a hotel or inn of any kind, instead you find a cottage in an isolated area of Nepal. You see a gravestone and fresh dirt, along with other older graves along a small plot of land, and understand this is a place where you will be allowed to grieve for what you have lost with all the human parts of you.

“What constitutes a soul?” you ask, you want to know his truth, even if you don’t believe it. It’s strange how the moment you see flaws in someone you start to see them as whole. It’s comforting, even though Zenyatta is persistent and idealistic (you think of Winston: in video games and in the world’s future) he is real.

“The knowledge there is a space for it, along with the willingness to let it grow,” he almost seems tired. He most likely is, he’s been fairly isolated for most of his life. You want to agree with him, to let his wholeheartedness win, you think it would be good for you.

    “Do you believe I have a soul?”

   “You have set things that remind you of home near you, does that not answer your question?” It is a question you do not answer, but you know you want to believe it does. You turn yourself into a space where you can only recall, you are not sure you’re ready to dream of self love just yet.

    Instead, the recall takes you to the Gibraltar office, that belongs, _used to belong_ to Dr. Ziegler. You are with her, in her messy eating and excessive multitasking. You speak sometimes, but don’t mind the natural silences that come. There is communication in silence as well. You know where she’ll touch, she knows where you will move. You won’t look at her much as she eats, but when you do she’ll put a small effort into being cleaner. She is serenity with tomato sauce on her face, and you enjoy it more than you should.

   She smiles at you when it’s aimless conversation, grumbles with near silent curses when interrupted with yet _another_ person, or responsibility, or problem, and tries _so so_ hard not to laugh when her mouth is full at anything funny. She lacks all the grace in the world when she’s startled, and gains it all back when she’s focused.

   You stay longer than intended or expected, and you are both pulled along for other pressing matters related to goals you’ve set. Your mind goes through your time to see if this recall is something real.

     _If? It is a matter of which._

  You wake up feeling hazy, and it’s the first time you’ve felt this way since you’ve had-- _gained_ this body. You are trying to make distinctions in your head when Zenyatta speaks to you.

   “I have brought food for you, my student.” He gently places three apples and some instant noodles into your lap, “I hope these are sufficient. I believe those noodles will be prepared once you open them, for they are labeled as ‘instant’.” You try incredibly hard not to laugh, to emulate Dr. Ziegler’s self control when her mouth is full, but you are no Dr. Ziegler, so you laugh. You intended it to be a chuckle, but you can’t stop, if your sides could hurt like they used to they would, and Zenyatta looks at you with a blankness that can only be confusion.

   “These packages have instructions, do they not?” you’re slightly breathless from laughter that is daring to bubble up once more. Zenyatta turns the container around, when his hand stills it takes a moment for a small _oh_ and you truly can’t help it you start laughing again, even louder this time. You get up, and you’re sure he’s giving the closest thing he can to a glare and take a suspiciously clean ceramic bowl. You don’t expect the sink to have running water but you try it out, pleasantly surprised when water pours into the bowl. You let your hands heat up the water as you walk back to Zenyatta, slowly to prevent even more laughter. Spilling hot water on your companion does not seem like a good idea.

    “I will show you, these aren’t instant until you add water. But you have already read the instructions…”

    “I would like to try this myself.” His voice somehow gets deeper, in a way that sounds less sixteen year old and more teacher. You’re mildly intimidated, and you hand him the bowl before you can think.

    “Understood,” you say. Zenyatta pours the water into the container of noodles and puts it on a small table. He’d insisted you slept on the bed the night before, but he was taking advantage of your absence to watch the noodles intently on the edge of his seat. You sit next to him, taking one of the apples and showing your face to eat it. Zenyatta takes the opportunity to hand you another apple while watching the noodles.

     “No thank you, though I believe the noodles are finished.” You place the apple next to the other one, then realize they’d fit nicely in the bowl, and put them next to the noodles, pushing them slightly. You swear Zenyatta is staring holes into your offending arm.

      “They have thirty two seconds left, I will wait.” He says, eyes leaving you and going back to the noodles.

       “I did not know you had an internal clock.” It makes sense in a way, a monk’s life must have been incredibly scheduled. You have one yourself, something you would’ve needed in your youth. Though you rarely keep it on, you prefer the passing of time to feel more natural.

        “I do not have one, I simply count.” You don’t know if you should be intimidated or amused, you decide a healthy mix of both will have to do.

         Seconds later, Zenyatta takes the noodles and hands them to you. He then hands you chopsticks, saying something about hearing you eat noodles with chopsticks from somewhere. You taste some, and the only thing you can think of is the ramen from Hanamura, this isn’t even close to being the same. So you decide to ask him a question.

    “You know, the noodles where I grew up are much better.” Zenyatta gives you a _hm?_ You do not tell him your life story in that moment, but you talk to him about a place that used to be home, about carrot top green and ramen and your brother. When he asks what your brother is like, you say _stubborn, honorable, sacrificing to a fault, and I forgive him for it all._ He asks what you’ve forgiven him for, and you point to yourself. You think when he says _ah, I am happy your soul managed to forgive him along with your mind_ , you gain a new respect for him. You call him Master in your voice, and sensei in your mind. You are happy with both the distinction and the conclusion, and you are content with the fact that you have much to learn.

    Time passes more fluidly after this revelation, you talk about souls over fruit and noodles, train with him in random hours of the night. On days you don’t want to be alone, which become more frequent, you see how he speaks with those around him, you see him grow and teach and influence in ways that felt ludicrous all that time ago.

  You were always aware that Overwatch shut down a few years ago, but hearing it from someone’s mouth, a villager’s callous words makes it all sound _wrong._ You ask him about it, and he says he found out through his past leader, Mondatta. He says they tried to do good, but politics tore them apart. You think about Morrison and Reyes, where and when they went wrong.

_“You can’t help them, and neither can I. No one can save them but themselves. But you are going to stay, as am I…”_

_“Try to find comfort here during your stay.”_

_“_ _You don’t get to be negligent of someone’s well being because of a goddamn spat!”_

If you were to be honest, your first thought was simple: shit. Your next thoughts were that you never learned to appreciate the place, the organization that took you under its wings. That you were allowed to see the people the _good_ people it brought in idealists, those trying to atone, those using it but it was all for what they believed was a greater good. You wish you’d understood this fully, you wish you could’ve done something more. Perhaps if you felt more _bound_ you could have found a purpose you hadn’t had the time to discover.

   “Genji, I know the doubts that plague you,” he says it simply, and you believe him. That doesn’t stop you from telling him, over so much time you lost track, about everything Overwatch gave and took from you.

   “Do you regret becoming part machine?” he asks, and if you wanted to you could analyze his tone and what he wants to hear. But you don’t, because you know he doesn’t want you to.

    You think of your abilities, your undiscovered, uncultivated love, the joy and pain you witnessed. You think of forgiveness, and take a deep breath before answering.

  “No,” you say. And for the first time in a long time you believe yourself.

     Three months later, you are in front of the incense you leave for the past you have lost, and take the sword you have hung up above it. Sensei comes towards you, does not say a word until he is facing you.

     “Genji, you were my brightest pupil, but I know our paths will cross. For now, you do what you must. We will meet again.” He looks away from you at the last part, and you know what he isn’t saying means as much as what was said out loud. You are used to silence as a form of communication at this point.

    “Thank you Master, for everything.” You have never been able to say goodbye, always leaving before any proper farewells. That does not mean you are any good at them. He comes closer to you, puts a finger on your wrist, and does not say a word. You both remember, and he removes his finger.

    “Do you need to say goodbye?” _to what you have made here_ , remains unsaid.

    “There is no need,” you say, “this is my home now, I will return.”

 He moves to leave your path open, and you leave knowing he and your home will be safe. Whether it’s blind faith or a premonition, you do not know, but you won’t give it up.

     “Brother, I am coming for you.”     

    One of the good points about being a cyborg with ninja training is your unique ability to smuggle yourself into various flights. You do not allow yourself to recall, at first you insist it’s to see if you’ll be caught, but later it is just to remember. Ever since you were a child, you were adept at sneaking into high places, and Hanzo was often the only one who could find you. And you were the exception to the rule during the times he wanted to be invisible. You think of the time you missed him, when you believed you took down Shimada. It’s funny, you always knew where to find him when you wanted to look. You didn’t then, you do now. Hanzo was always stuck on routine and self hate, so you knew what he would do. You know he would grieve the brother he believed he killed.

    When you arrive at Hanamura, you are at least nine hours early with ten year old arcade tokens. You look around, it’s 1:00, and if any kid’s playing hooky like you did, you’re sure a look at you would scare them off. They should be at school after all. In a strike of luck, there are no children to scare, so you lock the doors (if the kids can’t pick a lock at this rate and are part of _Shimada,_ they should be putting more into their studies) and test a coin. You do _not_ let out any loud gesture of joy when they do, instead you do what you came here to do: play arcade games. The first one you go to is Donkey Kong, because it’s a classic with fond memories that extend beyond this room. There is part of you, who speaks in the voice of your brother, who _is_ your brother. He says: _Genji, you are thirty five years old, why in the world are you playing these games?_ You laugh, and respond, _why don’t you beat me and find out?_ Of course, he’d have to go through everyone else you defeated first, and you would take the time to teach your teacher for once. You are alone yet connected, and you are free.

  _“We are all connected, even if separated. That is what memories and our global network share. If you need to feel, all you need to do is remember what to find.”_

  You’re ready to remember now, so you play and explore and roam the way you used to, soak in everything you want to find. You’re tempted to get ramen, and you measure the pros and cons before going to the stand. You know you’re being stared at, you don’t check the time and you eat. It isn’t the same as before, and you miss it, but that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy this. Maybe in time you’ll enjoy it _more_ than you used to.

  You manage to balance nostalgia with logic, be selective in your way of being. You are able, willing, and when you go into recall you come to both pass the time and see what you treasure. Instead, you see the world. Vast expanses, images from places you have never been, the views from Gibraltar, _here_ , your home in Nepal, you have traveled in hazy grief but now you remember. It is the border between night and morning when you rise, you see what your brother has left behind, and you follow.

   He is as stubborn as you remember, as self loathing as you assumed, and he is angry and speaking as if you are a stranger. He’s right: this part of you is. You do not show him your face, and he shows you his grief without understanding who you are. You show him through your sword when words will not reach you. You expect him to deny, which he does, or to attack, which he does. You do not expect him to crumple onto the ground, like a paper kite too worn to fly. His eyes are wide and shocked and _begging_ for a release he will partially admit and you will not give him.

   You tell him that, in grander words and say as much as you need to say that you can. You expect him to fire, you don’t expect him to put his bow down, as if he was torn apart the way you were. But he was, you think, his scars are invisible, and you are simply the exception to the rule.

   You tell him to make his choice, and hope he gives himself the forgiveness you can no longer live without. You manage to sneak onto another flight, not paying much care of where it leads you. You will find your way, wherever you need to go, you’ll find your way.

   You do not expect to be shot at twenty minutes away from the nearest building, and you wonder if after you get out of this, you should simply abandon all your expectations for the things happen to you. But for now, you are dodging a man with a mask and all black, shooting at you before turning into some sort of wraith. You’re able to deflect some shots, but you learn quickly he’ll fight dirty: your sides and back are all vulnerable if you do not watch them enough. He’s most likely a mercenary of sorts, but you don’t see why he’d be after you _now_. You were dead man walking, and had stayed as under the radar as you could for the past few years. You’d prefer to deal with this man quickly, but he seems to know how you fight, and you do not have the same advantage. It’s dark, which would be great for you if you knew where to hide, but he blends into the night as long as there are no lights, and you’re constantly limited before you know what hits you.

  A bullet manages to get past your sword, grazes your side, the one you guard less, the one that wasn’t shot before. He comes towards you, a ghost pinning you down. You see the mask, the one you originally thought was a skull and it comes to you in an instant.

_“Barn owls...was always taught they brought death. If you want to make an impact, make yourself a force of nature.”_

“Reyes?” you ask.

   “Another one of the list, _you_ were troublesome to find.” you know you can escape, but you won’t be unscathed. You try not to have heavy injuries, especially with your body, it’s always been difficult to find someone willing and able to fix you up. You don’t have to make the choice, you see bright yellow light and a not so bright shove and wings.

    “You saved me again Dr. Ziegler.” you say, and you don’t try and hide how awestruck you are. You stand up, and even though she knows your ability to feel pain is diminished, she looks at you with what feels like disapproval before turning to Reyes.

     “What have you become Reyes?” she asks, her healing staff is pointed towards you, warm energy filling your core. You notice the blaster hidden behind her. You prefer blades, but you’re willing to use it if necessary.

     “As if you don’t already know, _Doc._ ” His steps towards you are slow, as if he’s enjoying watching Dr. Ziegler squirm. You keep yourself ready to fire, as Reyes or this mercenary, is always full of surprises. Apparently, you don’t know this area of Reyes as well as she does, which doesn’t surprise you.

   What _does_ surprise you is Dr. Ziegler stepping towards Reyes, expression downcast, “I never intended this for you...I am sorry.” What you don’t realize is that the apology was for whatever happened between them and the jab she gives to his stomach. It doesn’t hurt him much, but it’s enough time for her to draw her loaded blaster and shoot him once? Twice? Six times? She flies towards you, screams _Run!_ You do just that, and look back for long enough to see him regenerate in front of your very eyes. You decide to stick to running at that point. By the time you reach a building you know you can climb, you look at her. You don’t know the capabilities of her suit well, but you know it would be difficult for her to win against-

   “Quickly, I’ll be right beside you, climb _now!_ ” she yells, her wings emit a yellow glow, and you know that’s your cue to climb as fast as you can. She keeps your pace well, occasionally shooting down at the ground. You don’t think she can see Reyes, and you definitely don’t think she cares. You lift yourself over the edge of the rooftop, and she lands with you, then rushes to dial a tone, whispering a quick _he’s here_ before turning back to you.

  “I have informed local authorities that the mercenary Reaper is near the premises, they will be coming shortly. Even now he has never been good with crowds and bright lights. We will be safe, but I’d advise you stay here for a few hours until I get another notification, if Reyes is anything, he’s persistent.” As she speaks she activates an elevator, and you both step in. She is the Dr. Ziegler you remember in this case, an excessive need to multitask. She is tapping her fingers against her suit, and you don’t think she’s conscious of it. When the door opens, she walks through halls that are unfamiliar to you, with the natural expectation for you to follow without vocalizing it. She knows you well, you think, she keeps the silence until you have understood your surroundings.

  “Genji,” she says, “you seem well.” She opens the door to her office, where she conveniently has a pillow and blanket. Still as attached to her work as ever, and for all the right reasons you can possibly think of. You sit down in the chair across from her desk, and she sits behind it, immediately setting up something to work on. She gets up to pour two cups of water, and you figure the cups are biodegradable, checking the bottom of the cup for confirmation as you thank her for the water. You do not think of showing your face as thing to be ashamed of with her, she has seen it before in conditions much worse than you sipping water from a biodegradable cup.

  “I am whole in a way I haven’t been before,” you say.

   “Yet you still manage to be reckless.” you don’t realize she’s joking until she looks up from a file and chuckles, it’s quiet and subtle but something you always hear.

     _And you, selfless,_ you almost say.

    “And you, always working. Are we not both reckless?” She looks down again, not at the task she’s on, but at her hands, unusually stilled.

     “You are reckless with your own life, I am reckless with others’, yet I still lecture you…” she’s stopped smiling, and you know she doesn’t cry but not crying has never stopped her from grieving. She has probably always been her harshest critic, not even Reyes could beat her at that.

    “You do more for others in a day than most do in longer, do not define yourself by your worst moments.” You admit, you’re channeling sensei, but it’s less self deprecating and more gratitude that you have managed to stay connected. When you see him again, you will tell him just that.

   “I am more cowardly than I have lead you to believe. Death is the one thing...the _one_ thing I fear the most. I have been asked: doctor, vat do you fear? How are you so brave, to go into war zones and save lives without fear? But you see, the truth is, I never want to see anyone die in front of me. I never want to see _myself_ die as long as I can make the world a better place… a death like theirs, like my parents’, I cannot let anyone die like that in this world, _that_ is what makes me a coward, someone who can never accept loss.” She is quiet, and she has never chosen to be loud, but this quiet is everything wrong with a state of near silence. Her voice rasps instead of raises when she’s trying to emphasize, she never meets your eyes. You do not know what to say, not yet, so she continues.

“I pushed my need for a body that could achieve leaps and bounds onto someone who had no say, not just once, but-”

“Do you need a reminder that you saved my life? Is that not what doctors do, save lives?”

You don’t tell her about the years you felt soulless, broken, of the resentment you felt towards them and her and _you_. There’s a space between you and her, filled with words unsaid, out of either necessity or reluctance. She discovered your journey the moment you saw her again, and you don’t have to say another word.

  She puts away her work, slowly, focusing on a task that would not usually have this much of her attention. Then, she sits back in her chair and looks at you for a moment. You can count the length of the breath she takes _one two three four five, one two three four five six seven_.

   “Do you remember when I told you it was a rare occurrence for me to be simply a woman? When I said I envied you?”

    “Yes,” you say, you remember most things she says. They have served you well.

     “It’s silly, I know, but I was a bit jealous you know! About how you are able to be called your name and your name alone. I understand Doctor, and Mercy, and Dr. Ziegler, sometimes Ms. Ziegler, but you are allowed to be just Genji, and I was very much jealous of the fact. I still am a little if I’m being honest, I would be surprised if people even knew my first name.”

   “Angela.”

 She looks at you, reaches for your hands, and holds them. It’s a light squeeze before she lets them go, and you hear the _danke Genji_ you aren’t supposed to hear. You understand it, to an extent, and you hope she doesn’t understand that you calling her by her first name is much more embarrassing than her calling you yours. After becoming a cyborg things were different, you didn’t mind being called by your first name, and even in Hanamura you were much more casual with your name than some. You were always formal when you could be, when you respected someone there was a title first, then a last name. Of course, exceptions rose in the form of extremely friendly men in armor, a scientist gorilla, and _Zenyatta_. But you had kept a boundary, especially with her, and you had erased it. A part of you wants to do it again, and you have no idea what to do with that desire. So you let it rest, because knowing both of you, there will always be time.

    “So,” she asks, hands crossed below her chin, it’s an exaggerated gesture and she knows it, “what are you going to do next?”

  You think of the time you saw the world in recall, of traveling, meetings, of a brother who has seen the world but hasn’t found joy in it, of a teacher who wants to be everywhere at once. You think of her, wonder if she sees this office like you do your home in Nepal. You have a lot left to learn, of her and him and them and you.

  If Hanzo could see you, he’d say: _there you are Genji, with that shit-eating grin_ , and you know she will connect the dots in time. She already has, a relaxed smile stretching across her face as she lets her cheek rest on her right arm, her left almost touching yours on the desk.

   “I don’t know,” you say, but you do know you are free to find out.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote most of this between the hours of 12-4am.


End file.
